A Day in the Sun
by geminigrl11
Summary: Hopeful-future fic. The boys enjoy a good day, for a change.


Re-posted because this is NOT a romance. *facepalm*

**Spoilers for Season** 4 (vague). A hopefully-not-too-far-in-the-future fic.

The placid beach is for Faye Dartmouth, the Cheetos for gekizetsu, Sam-with-kids is for me, and the happy boys for everyone.

Thanks to Faye and Tyranusfan for the betas! Stolen lines come from _Labyrinth_ and_ Monty Python and the Holy Grail._

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine.

* * *

It wasn't their typical kind of down time. But, then, nothing was typical anymore, so screw it. Sun, sand, surf? Check, check, check. Plus a cooler full of microbrew, some Cheetos, and two thick, white towels stolen from the last nice hotel they'd stayed at. As R&R went, it was shaping up to be pretty damned good.

Except Sam would _not _cooperate. "Put some sunscreen on, Dean. You'll burn." "We can't have alcohol on a public beach, Dean." "Dean! I told you not to take those towels!" _Nag, nag, nag. _

Still, it was good to see him acting as close to normal as he had in long time. The shadows were still there: Ruby and Lilith and Lucifer and a host of other bad memories. Sam would never lose the scars—neither of them would. And there were still some rough patches to work through, times when it was all Dean could do to keep Sam's massive guilt complex from dragging him under. So, to have this one day to just _be_…well, that was worth a lot.

If Dean could only get Sam to go with the program.

"Would you relax, already? Sit down and read or sleep or do one of stupid sodapop puzzles or something."

"It's _Sudoku_, Dean."

"Yeah, like I care. Is that stick up your ass permanent or can you take it out for parties?"

Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly a poster boy for tact. But, come on. Beach! Ocean! Girls in bikinis! Sam seriously needed to chill out and leave the OCD behind, for once.

Huffing out an annoyed breath—oh, yes, through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, the bitch face and all its accoutrements had persevered—Sam flounced off.

Whatever. He'd work it out eventually. And in the meantime, Dean had a bottle of Pikeland Pils in a _Virginia is for Lovers_ koozie and a big ol' bag of cheesy, crunchy goodness all for himself. Sounded like heaven. At least, the part that didn't look like some stuffy French mansion.

He pillowed his head on Sam's towel—one of them might as well be using it—and watched through slitted eyes as Sam headed toward the water.

No one was swimming. The weather was warm, hot even, but it was too early in the season for the water to be anything but cold. There were some kids by the surf's edge, though, two moms in bright-colored chairs flanking them. Hot girls in bikinis were more wishful thinking than reality, but a couple of MILFS might not be out of the question. Dean could just imagine what Sam would say to that, but really, it wasn't like he was going to _do _anything. A man just needed a little eye candy now and then.

Sam gave the little group a cursory glance and kept walking, pausing randomly to pick up shells—_seriously?_—and throw them out into the waves. It was all pretty girly and boring, but at least Sam was there and safe.

Dean took a long swig of very cold beer, dragged his discarded t-shirt over his face, and breathed a mostly-satisfied sigh.

*****

Sam knew he was being a pain. He'd jumped at the idea of an afternoon at the beach; looked forward to it, even. And he wasn't annoyed with Dean—at least, no more than usual. It was just one of those days when his skin felt too tight, bones aching like they were pushing out of him A hard-to-concentrate day. A hard-to-breathe day.

A day when it felt like all his sins were bleeding out of him.

He got like that…more often than he wanted to admit. Most times, Dean smacked him out of it. But sometimes he couldn't or didn't realize and it was still so hard for Sam to talk about. It made him feel like he was...drowning.

All this damned water wasn't helping, either.

He found a jagged piece of conch shell and lobbed it out toward the breakers, grimly satisfied when it shocked up a flock of bobbing seagulls. He'd just decided to give up and maybe go crash for a couple of hours, maybe apologize to Dean, when he felt a tug on his t-shirt.

He looked down—and down and down—to see one of the kids who'd been been digging in the sand a few yards away. "Hey, kiddo. What's up?"

The boy stared, head all the way back and mouth gaping slightly, making it clear that, for him, what was _up _was Sam.

"Ask him!" There was a little girl standing a few feet off, hands on her hips, an even smaller girl peeking out from behind her.

Sam crouched down so he was a little more approachable. Kids always made him nervous…not because he didn't like them, but because his size was usually pretty intimidating. He'd seen that big-eyed look a few times too many, had even inadvertently made a few babes-in-arms cry over the years, much to Dean's endless amusement.

"What did you want to ask me?" He pitched his voice as soft and nonthreatening as he possibly could.

The boy took a step back and blinked. "Are you a giant?"

Sam nodded solemnly, giving the answer he'd found worked best in these situations. "Yes, but I'm a good giant."

Which seemed to be just what the kids were waiting to hear.

"I told you!" The one girl hollered, and within a minute, Sam was surrounded by a half-dozen or so kids of various shapes and sizes, most of them _small. _As in, not-even-school-age small. Two started yanking on his hands, tugging him forward, and one industrious little sprout was pushing him from behind. "You have to help us."

"Wait. Wait! I don't—"

Two women walked toward him, hands on hips just like the little girl's had been, faces disapproving. Sam thought about mama bears and cubs and tried to gently pull free. "Guys. Hey, guys, I don't think your moms want—"

"It's okay, Mom! He's a good giant! He told us!"

"He's going to help us with our castle."

"He can do the digging."

"No! He can build the tower."

"But I want…"

Sam couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise if he'd wanted to.

One of the women started laughing. "Oh, honey. We're more worried about you than them. I don't think you know what you're in for." She walked back and grabbed her chair, dragging it closer. Her friend did the same, both of them grinning at each other conspiratorially as Sam was hauled down to kid-eye level, knees soon buried in wet sand.

*****

The next thing Dean knew, the sun was warm on his chest and some bird was shrieking annoyingly out by the water. He yanked the t-shirt off his face and stood, pulling it over his head and shoving his arms through as he squinted into the mid-day brightness, looking for his brother.

Who was nowhere to be found.

"Dammit, Sammy." Didn't it just figure? A real day off, and he was going to have to chase after the Disappearing Boy. Lord only knew what kind of trouble Sam had gotten himself in…

to…

"What the hell?"

He'd found Sam, alright. And he was..._playing_. With what looked like an entire preschool class. Chasing them in and out of the surf, while they took turns chasing him. And that shrieking bird? Yeah, that was more like shrieking _kids, _who screamed like banshees whenever Sam's long fingers reached out toward them.

A little boy was wrapped around Sam's neck, probably cutting off his air supply, chanting, "Giddyup, giddyup!" Sam galloped as ordered, hair flying back like it was trying to escape. His nose was sunburn-pink, his arms at least a shade darker than they'd been that morning, and there was a long smudge of sand across one cheek.

And as if that whole sight wasn't shocking enough, Sam was _laughing_. The closer Dean got, the more he could hear it: Sam's deep-throated, head back, honest-to-God laugh. Like he was having the time of his life.

It was something Dean hadn't heard since a silly prank war in Texas, years ago now. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how truly long it had been. Hadn't been sure Sam even remembered how.

It sounded pretty damned good.

Dean drew up next to a redhead in a low-cut black one-piece and a brunette in a gloriously orange string bikini—_oh, yeah, MILFs for sure—_flashing a mostly-innocent smirk when they both frowned. "The tall one's mine."

He donned a frown of his own when the redhead's eyes lit up and the brunette stammered, "Oh! You mean, Sam's your…"

"Brother. _Little_ brother." _Great. They think we're _antiquers.

Even more annoyed that both women looked disappointed, Dean took a step away from them. "Sammy!"

Sam pivoted when he heard his name, one hand sweeping back to make sure his little jockey didn't fall. "Dean! Hey!"

"Don't stop! Giddyup!"

"Hang on there, Hopalong." The little boy moaned in protest when Sam crouched down and sort of shimmied him off. "Let's just take a breather for a minute, okay? You can meet my brother."

At that, the whole mob of ankle biters turned in Dean's direction. One little girl came pounding over, grabbing and yanking him forward before he'd even had a chance to think about it. "Come see what Mr. Sam did!"

The other kids descended on him, and in less than a minute, Dean was being given a thorough tour of a pretty intricate-looking sand castle, complete with moat and battlements and a tiny blue flag made from a piece of driftwood and the remnants of a plastic cup.

"And look! There's flying butts!" The kids started laughing, one little boy in particular collapsing on Dean's toes, full-body giggling.

"Buttresses," Sam intoned, but the kids only laughed harder.

"Flying butts! Flying butts!"

"Flying monkey butts!"

"You're a monkey butt!"

"No, _you're_ a monkey butt."

"I think you're _all_ monkey butts," Dean broke in, and was immediately tackled by two pint-sized ninjas intent on showing their appreciation for his humor by climbing him like a tree, toes digging firmly into his kidneys. Which, come to think of it, was a better reaction than he usually got from Sam.

"Houston, I think we have a problem," he gasped out, wrapping an arm around each kid's middle and flipping them neatly.

That shrieking laughter thing? Yeah, pretty much a universal phenomenon. And it lasted through three games of chasing an equally kid-laden Sam, a mud pie-making contest, and one thoroughly cold dunking in the shallows when an extra-large wave snuck up on them.

Dean had no idea how much time had passed when one of the moms called out, "All right, gang, it's time to go. Better say goodbye to Mr. Sam and his brother."

The groans were piteous, and Dean could have sworn he heard Sam's baritone among the much higher-pitched whines of the rugrat hoard. The kids were pretty obedient, though—more than Dean would have given them credit for a minute earlier—and set about grabbing scattered toys and shoes and making their ways back to their moms without much complaint.

All except one.

The littlest girl—a mop-topped strawberry blond with wild curls—plopped her butt in the sand and started crying. Immediately, Sam was on his knees beside her. "Hey, Clara, what's wrong?"

She reached both hands out, fingers grabbing. "Ride!"

"Aww, you didn't get your ride?"

She shook her head, pouting, and Dean watched as Sam looked up toward the two moms, asking silent permission.

Which must have been granted, because Sam had her cradled in his huge hands and then up, straddling his shoulders in no time flat. "Now you're taller than everybody."

"Go fast!" She had Sam's thumbs gripped, one in each hand, and flapped them like reins. "Fast!"

Sam trotted off obediently as Clara led him in a wide loop toward the rest of the group. He deposited her in the redhead's arms with a loud raspberry to her cheek. She giggled and grabbed his face, landing a much wetter raspberry on his chin.

Dean's angle was off, but it wasn't hard to tell Sam was grinning, big as anything.

"Thank you so much for giving up your afternoon to play with the kids." The brunette held out a hand, first to Sam, and then took a couple steps forward to squeeze Dean's. She winked. "Y'all are good sports."

"We had a great time," Sam answered. And he sounded like he really meant it.

"Now, everyone tell Mr. Sam thank you."

"Thank you Mr. Sam!" The kids weren't quite in unison, but they made up for it with volume.

"And Mr. Sam's brother."

"Thank you, Mr. Sam's brother." That one got a little garbled toward the end, but the intent was there.

Dean waved as the crew headed up the hill toward the parking lot. And then turned and smacked Sam on the shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Sa-am." He singsonged as they headed for their towels.

"Oh, knock it off. You were having fun, too." Sam stuck out a bony ankle and tripped Dean. Grinning when Dean stumbled and then reached over to cuff his ear.

"Nah, it was cute, Sammy. Didn't know you had it in you."

Dean almost missed it, Sam's voice barely audible when he answered, "I wasn't sure, either."

They sprawled on their towels, drowsy. Content. Dean even opened Sam a beer and they clinked cans as they watched the tide come in.

The castle slowly melted against the onslaught of waves as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

"You know, Sam, you really should've built a large wooden badger."

"Shut up, Dean."

_FIN_

* * *

N.B.: Pikeland Pils is one of the few microbrews that really does come in a can—or so the internet tells me. The internet says the same company (Sly Fox) makes a bottled brew called "Ichor" and another called "Incubus." How cool is that?


End file.
